


Einheriar

by orphan_account



Category: Generation Kill, True Blood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-21
Updated: 2011-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, crossover. A marine walks into a fang bar... RESUBMITTED TO FIX FORMAT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Einheriar

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to amy_thrace821 for being an excellent beta, and to bitter_crimson and lemmealone for their helpful suggestions.
> 
> Reposted to fix formatting problems.

It's the first time Nate's been to a vampire bar, and, honestly, he's a little disappointed at how cheesy it all is. Fangtasia is full of cruisers, bored mid-western tourists looking for a thrill and a t-shirt to take home to mom, another futile strike against "normal" life. The rest have given up on life entirely, in one way or another. They're all waiting, all eyeing each other up- surreptitious, coy, desperate, but they mostly seem bored. He wonders, idly, what Ray Person would have to say if he were here.

Nate watches avidly as the bartender slides a Bloody Mary and a bottle of A negative to the waiting couple beside him. Blood slops out of the bottle and spatters the bar and he wrinkles his nose, thinks about transmission fluid flooding under his tires in Iraq.

It's not the blood he remembers, for some reason. Headless people, armless people, a truck running off the road- none of it haunts his dreams like the slick pink spill in Nasiriyah.

"I hope you aren't squeamish," someone says, behind him. He jumps. "Some people see the blood and-"

Nate doesn't know what he looks like, but the expression on his face must be answer enough because the man throws his head back and laughs. His teeth flash in the light, and Nate can't see any fangs but somehow the man still looks ancient. He should be hefting a battleaxe, not slumming it in a kitschy nightclub.

"It's too real for some of them," the man finishes. "They do not know real danger. I can see you are not one of them."

A woman wearing a leather corset and black lipstick slinks up to the bar, her eyes wide and dark with lust. Her hands are shaking a little when she leans on the bar, full of adrenaline or fear or something more illicit. "My lord," she says in a tremulous voice. A supplicant.

"Not now," Nate's companion snaps. The woman stumbles away.

"You're Eric Northman," Nate says, suddenly realizing who he's talking to. No one else in this bar could command that respect.

"Yes," Eric says. He leans in close, scrutinizing Nate carefully. "And you... are interesting. Drinks are on the house." He flashes a bright, unnerving smile. "Perhaps I will see you later," he says, and then he's gone.

 

****

 

Fucking a vampire isn't all that different from fucking a human, as it turns out. When Nate collapses on top of Eric, sticky and satisfied, the vampire cards his fingers through Nate's hair, cradling his head with one giant hand. His eyes are closed, his face peaceful. His fingers zigzag across Nate's back, following some path that only he knows.

Nate tucks his head into the space between Eric's neck and shoulder, and, for the first time, he notices that Eric doesn't have a pulse. He looks up, irrationally surprised, and asks a question that's been on his mind since this started.

"Are you going to drink from me?" he asks. Eric smiles without opening his eyes.

"Not tonight," he murmurs. Nate sets his head back down onto that solid, strange shoulder.

For the first time in a long time, he feels protected. Safe.

 

****

 

It's the end of the night at Fangtasia, and the club is closed for the evening. The staff are cleaning and Eric is in the back, going over the financial records with his accountant. Nate finds himself sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and trying to be inconspicuous. Ginger slams a basket of glasses into the dishwasher and shrieks in dismay when something shatters.

"Oh, shit," she says. Her hands flutter wildly in the air for a moment, and then she skitters out of the room, presumably to find a broom. Nate watches her go, wondering how long she's got left. Her job is going to kill her, one way or another. He sympathizes.

"So you're Eric's new pet," Pam says, sliding onto the seat next to his. She notices his beer and wrinkles her nose in distaste. She's wearing black lace tonight, something with a dramatically high collar that would look ridiculous on anyone else. Her gaze is frank and challenging, and Nate meets it evenly.

"You're a Marine, and a classicist, and an idealist," Pam says, ticking them off on her fingers. She sounds unnervingly like Brad. "And so young."

"Young?" Nate echoes, looking up from his beer.

"You're older than you look," Pam says, "and you look so young. I can see why he's interested in you." Her mouth curves into a sardonic grin, bitterness underneath.

"Why are you here, anyways?" She looks him up and down. "How did you end up in this shithole of a town?"

Nate can't help the smile that quirks his face. "I admit I may have gotten a little sidetracked. I came here for a stag party."

Pam laughs humorlessly. "You wouldn't be the first," she says. "You're just the most interesting, so far. What do you want from him?"

"What did you want from him?" Nate asks.

 

****

 

"Think of all the good you could do," Eric says. His hands are open and his face is vulnerable.

"Why me?" Nate asks.

"You remind me of someone," Eric says. "And you would make a good vampire."

So do you, Nate almost says. "I don't know if I can live forever," he says instead. He's staring at Eric's coffin.

"You deserve to live forever," Eric says. "Aren't you afraid of death? Of decaying, growing old before you can make a difference in the world? Don't you want power? Don't you want to change things?"

"Yes," Nate whispers. Eric traces his cheekbone with a thumb, and then, while Nate is blinking sleepily at him, beguiled, he closes his teeth on Nate's neck.

When Nate's knees give out and his vision blurs, Eric is there to catch him. He presses his wrist to Nate's mouth. "Drink," he says. "Drink."

Eric cradles Nate's body to his chest, kicks the lid of his coffin into place, and waits. Outside, the sun rises.

 

****

 

The girl is tall, and beautiful, and not at all nervous. Nate can hear the blood pumping through her veins. He can smell it. She smiles at him and leans back on the couch, spreading her legs and baring her neck invitingly.

"No," he says.

Eric huffs out an exasperated breath. "You have to, Nate." He's standing behind her, arms braced on the back of the couch.

"I can drink True Blood," Nate protests. "You said I could live on it! Everyone says you can live on it!"

"And what will you do if there's no True Blood? It isn't everywhere." He can feel Eric's frustration. "You need to learn to drink real blood, Nate. You need it to survive."

Nate shakes his head, but he's wavering under the double onslaught of Eric's words and emotions.

"She's been paid to do this, Nate. She's willing." The girl smiles again. Her hair is red, probably from a bottle, and her eyes are warm and brown.

"I won't let you hurt her," Eric says. He takes her hand in his, and turns her wrist up as if to kiss it. Instead he bites down, breaking the delicate skin, and pulls back to let blood well up from the wound. It slides thickly down her arm and drips onto the couch.

Nate's not really aware of leaving his chair. There's only her blood, warm and sweet and rich, and the weight of Eric's hand on his head.

 

****

 

Brad's voice is tinny on the other end of the phone, even to Nate's newly-enhanced ears.

"Well," he says, "I always suspected you drank the blood of virgins, sir, to keep yourself looking freakishly young. Now I know it for a fact."

Nate smiles in spite of himself.

"Take care of yourself," he says, because he can't quite bring himself to say goodbye.

He tells himself that he'll visit, sometime. Drop in when Brad's not in Iraq, or Afghanistan, or some other war-torn corner of the planet.

Perhaps he will.

 

****

 

"Don't turn her," Nate says. He puts a hand on Eric's shoulder.

Eric looks at his hand, and then up at Nate, unhappy. It's a look he's seen countless times before, on the faces of his men, washed out and small in the sun and the endless desert. There's no sun now, but the muggy Louisiana air is as thick as any shamal, and the expression on Eric's face is unmistakeable.

"Let her live a human life, have children, grow old," he says gently. "Do you really want to force her to live with those voices forever?"

Eric sighs, and shrugs Nate's hand off. "The Queen gave me very little choice in the matter," he says.

"Don't," Nate says. He uses his officer voice this time. "Let Sophie-Anne turn Sookie if she wants her that badly. You know she's just trying to get rid of her, and stick you with a mad vampire. It isn't a gift."

Much to his surprise, Eric listens to him.

Afterwards, when the dust has settled, Pam buys him a drink, a ridiculously expensive suit, and a Havanese puppy as a thank-you gift. ("That cost me two thousand dollars. You'd better enjoy it," she says. The dog looks up at Nate. Nate looks at the dog. He can't quite bring himself to eat any animal that can look him in the eye. He goes out and buys dog food and a collar the next night.)

"I don't know why he listens to you," Pam says, "but I'm glad he does."

 

****

 

Eric holds him, snug in the bed they've never slept in, and indulges Nate's scholarly curiosity. His stories are overlaid with a patina of age and repetition, too perfect to be true recollections. Nate wonders if Eric actually remembers the color of his wife's eyes; whether he can recall the exact shade or if he's only reciting facts, memories reduced to rote recitation.

"Humans and vampires were not so different, then; we were all drenched in blood. Blood was the life force, _til árs ok friðar._ "

"Tell me about Iraq," he says.

Nate shuts his eyes, remembers blood pooling in the streets. He remembers the feeling of the sun beating down on him, the stench of sweat and piss and unwashed men living in close proximity.

"It stank," he says, and Eric's smile curves against his shoulder.

"Some things never change."

 

****

 

Nate loses interest in politics after a few centuries; he discovers that people are predictable, and petty, and each generation feels like he's starting from scratch. He hands his offices over to another vampire hopeful and doesn't set foot in Washington again for a century.

They go to Iraq. Pam disappears into the markets and returns with perfume and jewelery and fine silks. Nate finds the empty stretch of desert that used to be Nasiriyah, and contemplates the berms rising out of the bare sand, the shocking green of the reeds, the river winding steadily through the landscape. Wreckage from a helicopter, left over from the last war, is scattered across the desert.

The stars haven't changed; they're still obscured by dust and clouds and drifting smoke.

"You can't stop it, can you?" Nate says.

Eric, standing silently beside him, shrugs. "You still have time."

**Author's Note:**

>  _Til árs ok friðar_ : "for a good year and peace", Old Norse prayer.


End file.
